


Verdant

by MargaretKire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Depressed Stiles Stilinski, Estranged childhood friends, Fae Stiles Stilinski, House Cleaner Derek, House Cleaning, M/M, Magic-Starved, Magical Creatures as Normal Folk, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Self-Harm through neglect, So much cleaning, Touch-Starved, Unresolved grief, Werewolf Derek Hale, alternating pov, magic has a scent, self-neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire
Summary: Each house has a unique scent. Stiles' house smells on the verge of tears.Or: Derek cleans houses for the supernaturals of Beacon Hills. Sheriff Stilinski hires him to take care of the house that Stiles inherited from his fae grandmother. Derek quickly discovers that Stiles has not been taking very good care of himself.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 146
Kudos: 371





	1. Chapter 1

Derek glanced at his phone, a Google Maps display of the one of the oldest neighborhoods in Beacon Hills instructing him to turn left. He rolled down the window as he drove slowly along a narrow street covered in patched potholes, the windshield flashing with sunshine and then with the leafy shade cast by dozens of mature trees lining the sidewalks. He inhaled the air, getting a feel for who lived in this sleepy part of town. Mostly humans, of course. Now and then he caught the faint scent of some supernatural creature. Nothing sharply defined, just the tingling spice of magic.

“Hey mom, I’m almost at Stiles Stilinski’s house. I’m going to need to go,” Derek murmured, interrupting a story about Laura’s kids.

“Oh. Okay, honey,” Talia’s voice crackled over the Camaro’s new call system. The upgrade had been a birthday present he hadn’t wanted. It gave his already nosy family even more access to him. “I’m so glad you agreed to try. John says that Stiles spends all his spare time over at John’s place, still cleaning and shopping for him while he totally neglects the house he inherited from his grandma. Stiles has really only had that place for about a six months now, but apparently it’s losing its aura and-”

“I know, mom,” Derek sighed. They had been over all this when she had wheedled him into taking the job. He hadn’t wanted to. Not only was his schedule technically full already, but there were certain… _nuances_ to him agreeing to clean for Stiles Stilinski.

He pulled into the last drive on the right, which was the only driveway on the block covered in sandy gravel instead of blacktop. The house itself was set well back from the street, with one of the strangest trees Derek had ever seen twisting up and over the shaggy lawn, its heavy branches snaking out low to the ground.

Derek parked in front of the garage, half-listening as his mom attempted to continue their conversation from the previous week. “I know you haven’t seen him since you were both kids, honey, but things were so complicated after Claudia’s death and-”

“I _know,_ mom,” Derek said again.

“Anyway, I hope you get the chance to reconnect with him, even if it's just a little. He really needs a supernatural influence in his life. John’s worried about him.”

“Stiles won’t even be home. Plus, he’s friends with Scott,” Derek reminded her, squinting out at the lawn. It looked tragically neglected. The weeds had run riot. They were especially dense under the sills. A huge thistle had grown past the first floor and was practically trying to climb into one of the upstairs windows.

“Yes, but he’s been Stiles’ only supernatural friend since he was in high school. And Scott only got the bite to cure his asthma after he was hospitalized in tenth grade,” his mom recited, her astounding memory perfectly tuned to the goings-on of the town's supernatural population after being the pack alpha for decades. “Scott’s still friendly with the local weres, as you know, but it’s not like he ever wanted to become a beta and join pack life. And now that he’s married, apparently they aren’t as close. John was saying that he can tell a difference in Stiles and he really, _really_ appreciates you doing this.”

Derek sighed heavily, looking away from the monster thistle and staring at the moss creeping over the garage door in front of him. “I’m here,” he told his mom.

“Okay, I’ll let you get to work. Are you coming over for dinner on Sunday?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll let Cora know. She wants to introduce you to her girlfriend.”

“I already know Lydia, mom.”

“But not as Cora’s _girlfriend.”_

Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, making sure the long-suffering tone came across clearly in his voice. “I’ll see you all this weekend. Bye, mom.”

“Bye, sweetie. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnected and Derek began unloading his cleaning supplies from the cramped interior of the Camaro. He folded down the passenger seat and carefully worked out the vacuum cleaner from the back. With blankets laid out over the leather seats, and with a lot of careful planning, he was _just_ able to fit everything he needed for his cleaning business into the sports car. 

He should probably cave and get something more practical. Except that Laura had teased him so mercilessly that first month he started his business, he’d made it work out of spite. Not that his family didn’t _still_ tease him about being the only professional cleaner in Beacon Hills with a Camaro as a work vehicle, but by now he liked to tell himself that it was a point of pride. It helped soothe the irritated scream that welled up every time the vacuum got wedged the wrong way in the back seat and he had to turn himself into a pretzel to extract it without accidently pulling it apart. It might have fit in the trunk with a little maneuvering, though that was completely taken up at the moment with his homemade cleaning products.

It was fine. The car was fine. At least he looked cool driving it. As long as no one saw the vacuum cleaner in the backseat.

His bucket of supplies dug into his hip as he lugged the vacuum up to the garage door. Derek set everything down on the stone walkway in order to flip through his overburdened keyring, looking for the one that John had handed him the day before at the police station. Finding it after a moment of loud jangling, he let himself into the garage, wrinkling his nose at the common garage smell of motor oil and ancient grass clippings.

He wrestled his supplies the few steps needed to get to the door that led into the house, and was almost surprised that it had been left unlocked as John had promised. He had wondered if Stiles might have decided to lock him out, honestly, so it was a relief that he didn't have to call the sheriff and put the job off for another day. Well, mostly a relief. He was still questioning whether taking this job had been a good idea, ignoring the fact that his mom and Stiles’ dad thought it was some sort of miracle solution to Stiles’ situation. 

Derek took a deep breath, and let himself into the house. He stood in the outdated kitchen, getting his bearings and cautiously scenting the air. 

It was always so surreal, entering a new home for the first time. Each house he cleaned was different, but they all had one thing in common: the owners were at least partly supernatural. The majority of his clients were werewolves, but he also cleaned for a vampire, three witches (who had their cabins close together on the same property), a banshee and a merperson. Each had specific needs and viewed the proper caretaking of their homes differently from full humans.

Each house had a unique scent. 

This house smelled on the verge of tears. Tired. Achy. Somehow balancing on the edge of a quiet, desperate breakdown. 

Derek sighed and rubbed his face, a sadness settling over him. He had his work cut out for him, but he’d pulled places back from the edge before. This house had the feel of wanting to be healed. It was a house that had magic caked into the walls and settled over the furniture like dust, though it was growing stale, unused and ignored.

He started by opening all the windows on the first floor, getting to know the space in the process. It was a rambling home, doors opening on a vast array of little rooms and cupboards. There was an enormous sunroom in the back of the house, sunlight streaming over the bits of garden furniture and stacks of recycling that sat there. He noted with concern that there weren’t any plants sitting in the sunny windows.

The place looked to have been decorated with a determinedly eclectic style sometime in the seventies, and Derek guessed that Stiles’ grandmother had taken good care of the place up until she’d left it to her grandson. The place spoke of recent neglect, not long-standing neglect. It had a hippie sort of vibe, with a huge wood frame sofa covered in a handmade afghan and tatty embroidered throw pillows. There were tiny incense altars and goddess statues littered around the den and living room, tucked into empty spots between books on the heavy library shelves or crammed next to chunky lamps on end tables.

A beaded curtain clattered cheerfully when he swept it aside to investigate what turned out to be a disused herb and flower drying room. The baskets and wooden racks remained, but all traces of the plants that should have been airing in the bright room were gone. There were a few mason jars half-full of homemade potpourri and a scattering of seed pods on a shelf behind the door, but otherwise the room was obviously abandoned. Derek slid open the windows and dust swirled in the air current. It felt like the room sighed in relief.

He headed upstairs after making a thorough circuit of the main floor, the old staircase creaking as he made his way up. He walked into the first room on the left, finding a small bedroom that had been turned into an office and cast into shadow by hideous light-blocking blinds over the windows. Derek pulled up the shades, then opened the windows to let fresh air in. 

The next room was a guest bedroom with an ancient twin bed covered by an old flower quilt and a decrepit stuffed animal perched on the pillow. The corner of the room had a craft table loaded down with plastic storage containers holding a vast array of fabric and yarn. The room had the same light-blocking shades covering the windows. Derek guessed that the blinds were recent additions. They didn’t fit in with the rest of the house. Stiles must have added them. With a sigh, Derek opened the blinds and slid the windows up.

The house seemed more cheerful with the soft breeze circulating through the rooms, smelling of leaves and sunshine. He wondered how long it had been since Stiles had cracked open a window. Fresh air was vital to fae. A fae keeping all their windows shut was the equivalent of a human never drinking water. Sure, a human could survive on coffee and soda, but they wouldn’t feel very good. Derek could just imagine the headaches Stiles must be getting from denying himself the breeze and the scent of growing things.

The largest room on the second floor was a bedroom that smelled lived in and very... _male_. The scent was mostly human with a hint of something wild and _other_ underneath, barely noticeable even in the airless room. 

As he slid the windows open, Derek noted the way the room was arranged. It was set up much the way a human would organize a bedroom, not a fae. The bed was between the windows, rather than under them, and there were no plants anywhere to be seen. He frowned, staring at the depressing mess of unwashed sheets and lumpy pillows. There was the lingering smell of stale food and old coffee and Derek guessed that Stiles had done a hasty clean up of the dishes and coffee mugs that had likely littered the bedside tables until recently. 

It was common for first time clients to try and clean before he got there, which he mostly appreciated. It was nice to survey the house without all the extra clutter in the way, and to get a sense of what the client felt “tidy” looked like.

For Stiles, tidy looked like a hastily dashed-together bed, dirty laundry stuffed into the closet, and dark rings of previous beverages encrusted on the night stands. There were a few books, a clock, and a phone charger but not much else in the room besides the furniture and the bed.

Even if John hadn’t specifically asked Derek to do the laundry, which he had practically begged Derek to do, shoving an extra couple of twenties into his hand, Derek would have had to wash those disgusting sheets. If for no other reason than to avoid the guilt of letting any living thing get back into that depressing bed, let alone a delicate fae. Stiles had to have rashes and skin irritation. He _had_ to. Creatures that had green magic were notoriously sensitive to any sort of staleness. They could roll around in fresh garden dirt, laughing and growing stronger, but put them in a closed-up space and they would eventually wither.

Derek stripped the bed quickly and efficiently, born of long practice. He used the top sheet to bundle up the rest of the bedding, trying to ignore the strong smell of Stiles and sadness, and headed back downstairs in search of a washing machine.

On his way to the basement, Derek stopped in the sunroom and peeped out into the backyard for an outside clothesline. He spotted the existing posts, but no rope. He made a mental note to bring a line next time. A fae should have sheets that were aired out in the sun after they were washed. Tossing them into the drier with a fabric sheet would be cruel. Derek shifted the laundry in his arms, trying to ignore the sheer misery coming from the fabric.

The washer and dryer were tucked into a dim corner of the unfinished basement. Derek found a bare bulb screwed into the wall, pulled on the string to turn it on, then stared dismally at what he had to work with. He scrunched up his nose at the barrage of unpleasant smells.

He refused to use the god-awful laundry detergent Stiles had placed on a plywood shelf above the washer. He could smell the chemicals through the plastic container, turning his stomach and giving him the pinch of an oncoming headache. He made a trip back out to the Camaro, popping open the small trunk and pulling out a carefully arranged bucket of homemade detergents that he cooked up especially for his supernatural clients. Most of the werewolves he cleaned for didn’t like their belongings touched, especially clothing, and only a few of them asked him to do anything with the laundry. But for the remaining clients, he used his own recipes.

He selected one that he’d made with herbs and a few drops of flower oil. Faes had delicate skin and were usually adverse to harsh scents. Derek was honestly surprised that Stiles could tolerate the name brand stuff he’d been using. Or, well, maybe he couldn’t. Maybe there was a reason behind the unwashed bedding besides sheer laziness. Derek sighed and headed back into the house to get the laundry started.

He upended the depressing sheets into the washer and measured out extra soap into the drum. The sharp green smell of the detergent only served to emphasize the appalling mustiness of the basement. Taking a look around after he got the washer started, he found a dehumidifier with a brimming tank of stagnant water out in the main part of the basement. Wrinkling his nose and trying not to gag, Derek carefully walked the tank over to the utility sink and dumped the smelly water down the drain. He scrubbed everything down with heavy-duty lemongrass spray, before getting the dehumidifier running again. 

He rooted around in the closets, finally unearthing a box fan that was likely older than Laura, and which was suspended on a tall stand so that it could be angled up or down. He rolled it out to the foot of the basement stairs and turned it on full blast, getting the air to circulate the fresh smell of the laundry detergent throughout the stagnant basement.

Leaving the washing machine chugging away at the sheets, Derek went back upstairs to tackle the second floor bathroom. It was obviously the one that Stiles actually used. While it wasn’t one of the filthiest bathrooms he’d ever encountered, it was certainly one of the ugliest.

There was one small window on the far wall, between the toilet and the bathtub, but it was sealed shut with vile burnt-orange paint. Derek inspected the window frame for a moment, deciding that he could probably force the window open without breaking the glass. However, that would leave loose paint chips and jagged edges that would need to be sanded down. It wasn’t a 'first day on the job' sort of project. Plus, he should check with Stiles just in case there was some reason the window was painted shut. Derek guessed it had more to do with laziness than design considering the way the orange paint was slapped on the trim. 

The avocado-green porcelain would have fit rather nicely into an intentionally retro-style bathroom, but Derek had no idea what look Stiles was going for. The walls were dark brown, the trim was orange. The hand and bath towels were probably supposed to match the trim, but they were a weird shade of hazmat-tangerine which didn’t match anything and seemed to glow spitefully against the dark paint.

Derek took a deep breath and steeled himself to move the shower curtain aside. Nothing told him more about a client’s mental state than their shower.

Stiles’ shower screamed absolute misery.

The tub was avocado-green to match the toilet and the sink. The tile walls should have been white with white grout, but the mold and soap scum made them look more like khaki tile with black grout. Derek made a face. He had known this was what he would find, but that didn’t mean he was happy to have his suspicions confirmed.

It appeared that the tub also had a slow drain, because there was still a puddle of scummy water around the plug hole. Derek tested his theory by running some water into the tub and watching the sluggish swirl as it sat there rather than running down the drain as it should.

He turned his attention to the products that were shoved into every corner of the tub’s ledge, most of them growing dark rings around their bases where they sat in pools of water. Derek would bet money that most of those bottles were empty.

He glanced at the cluttered counter by the sink - which was plastered with shaving cream, stubble, and dried toothpaste globs - and guessed that most of those containers were also empty. Not to mention that they were all brands that shouldn’t be anywhere near a fae’s skin.

Derek groaned. Stiles was a mess. He’d grown from the happy-go-lucky fae kid that Derek had known when he was younger, into a miserable magical creature trying to live like a human, even though he clearly wasn’t one. It didn’t matter that his magic came from his grandmother and the rest of his family was human. That was still considered a pretty strong connection to supernatural blood. Derek could smell the magic, worked into the sheets, the towels, the actual air of the house. Stiles was a fae. But he wasn’t living like one.

First things first, Derek retrieved a bottle of Drano from his cleaning supplies. There were ways to unclog a drain that didn’t involve chemicals, but they were more time consuming, and Derek usually only bothered with those fussy methods for merpeoples’ homes, where the purity of the water was always such a pressing concern. For a fae though, as long as he flushed the drain thoroughly with hot water, Stiles wouldn’t be affected. In all honesty, his brand of mouthwash was a much bigger cause for alarm.

Derek poured the whole bottle of Drano into the tub, really regretting the window being sealed shut when the chemical smell burned his nose as he worked on cleaning the counter. He threw out all the empty bottles, rinsed off the remaining few that still had product, and arranged them neatly once he had sprayed down the counter with orange peel and sage cleaner. He wanted to incorporate as many plant oils as possible as he cleaned Stiles’ house. It would help boost Stiles' aura and calm his magic.

He sprayed the mirror with a separate cleaner, also homemade, and wiped the surface down with a microfiber cloth. He had to respray the bottom of the mirror and scrub off all the toothpaste splatters, but in the end the glass was flawless, reflecting back the atrocious bathroom with perfect clarity.

Sighing, he doused the sink in the orange-sage cleaner and let it soak in while he tackled the toilet as quickly and efficiently as possible. He knew that, if he kept up the schedule of cleaning Stiles’ house once a week, this would be the worst he would ever see this awful bathroom. This level of scuzziness had crept up over months of neglect. There was no way one man could create this much chaos in a single week, meaning that Derek would be facing a much less disgusting task next time. It was that thought that got him through the last few minutes before he was flushing the toilet and polishing the stainless steel handle.

The tub let out a loud glug, the water draining away in a matter of seconds. Derek turned the tap on as hot as it would go and let the water flush out the pipes while he finished the sink. When he could no longer smell the chemical stench of the Drano, he turned off the tap and doused everything in the tub with orange-sage spray. Once it had soaked in and streaks of white tile were starting to show through, he tossed the empty bottles and cleaned off the rest under the tap, setting them on the floor out of the way. Then he scrubbed the tile, rinsing and respraying, until finally everything was fresh and gleaming. He arranged the clean bottles of shampoo and body wash back onto the shelf in the corner of the shower, all of the products fitting with room to spare now that the empties had been cleared out. He sprayed and rinsed the clear plastic curtain liner and wiped down the tub hardware until it glistened, feeling immeasurably better that the worst had been dealt with.

After wiping down the dark walls to clear them of dust and water trails, he finished polishing the light fixture above the mirror and cleaning the useless window, before finally hauling all his cleaning supplies into the hallway so he could sweep and mop the floor. He strategically worked the mop over the tiles and rearranged the bucket of sudsy water, performing the awkward dance that was required to successfully mop a tiny space. He lifted the toilet seat and dumped the dirty mop water into the bowl, wiping the rim and flushing a few times, until all that remained was the fresh scent of orange oil and herbs. 

It was a shame that nothing could be done about the hideous paint job.

After yet again lamenting the lack of a clothesline and moving the sheets to the dryer and starting a load of towels, Derek tackled the kitchen. It was surprisingly free of cooking mess, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. He opened the wood cabinets to find packets of ramen and cans of Chef Boyardee. The frighteningly retro fridge held an empty bottle of hot sauce and a stick of butter. The rest of the fridge space was taken up by canned beverages ranging from energy drinks to soda to, oh _god,_ Slimfast shakes. There wasn’t even any juice. None of the shakes contained fruits or vegetables. All the flavors were either fake chocolate or some sort of non-existent flavor like ‘arctic blue.’

Derek closed the fridge door too hard, making the empty ceramic canisters on the counter shake. He hoped that Stiles was eating out at good cafes and restaurants, or that maybe he was just behind on shopping. Because if he was living like this all the time, then Derek didn’t know how he wasn’t horribly sick.

He got his answer a few minutes later while he was putting away the clean dishes (after replacing the Dawn with his own dish soap concoction of tea tree oil and juniper), and discovered an alchemist's bottle in the cupboard with the glasses. It was made of heavy amber glass and filled with pills that rattled against one another as Derek lifted it to read the label. The part of the label that would have stated what the pills were was scraped off, but the logo of the shop was still visible. The bottle had come from Deaton’s.

Feeling a small pang of guilt for prying further than he usually would into a client’s life, Derek opened the bottle and sniffed. Herbs. Highly concentrated. No hint of magic, just the herb oils themselves, held inside a neutral capsule. 

So that was how Stiles wasn’t completely bedridden. He was doing the absolute bare minimum to keep himself going. These sorts of pills were usually prescribed to supernaturals who couldn’t consume enough of what their bodies needed on their own. His mer client had needed to bring salt crystals and fish oil capsules with them when they’d traveled to Kansas on a business trip for several weeks and couldn’t get their usual shipment of live saltwater fish. Even then, they had come back not feeling well and had needed to recuperate.

Stiles wouldn’t be much different. These herb oil pills were not meant to be a fae’s entire dietary requirement of fresh nutrients. Derek wasn’t sure how many Stiles was taking, as that information had also been suspiciously scratched from the bottle, but it was probably only enough to prevent his magic from causing him severe pain.

Derek set them back on the shelf and glowered at them. Then he looked over the house again, confirming what he suspected. Beyond the few dried scraps in the airing cupboard, there were no plants of any sort in the entire place. No living things besides dust mites and mold. 

In a _fae_ house. Derek shook his head in disbelief.

He got the sheets from the dryer and made the bed, regretting that it wouldn’t be quite enough, not without the sun beating down on the fabric and imbuing it with cleansing energy. But at least Stiles would feel a little bit better from the fresh aura of herbs and the small amount of magical transference from Derek’s hands on the fibers as he tucked the bedding into place.

In the end, he wasn’t able to clean the entire house by the time he needed to leave for his next job. He’d managed to get the majority done, but he’d have to leave the dusting and the bulk of the remaining laundry for next week. He ran the vacuum in the main rooms and mopped the kitchen, folded the two loads of clothes he’d gotten into the machine after the towels, and left the kitchen in better condition than he’d found it.

He closed all the windows but the one over the kitchen sink, which he left cracked, and two of the windows in Stiles’ bedroom. Hopefully, Stiles would realize it helped him to sleep and he would start doing it on his own. 

Derek packed everything back into his car and then texted the sheriff.

Derek: _I’m locking up now. I’ll need to finish the laundry and dusting next week. Sorry I didn’t have time to do everything, but the main part of the house is clean and 4 loads of laundry done._

By the time he’d gotten the car started, he’d gotten a text back.

John Stilinski: _You are a godsend, thank you so much_

Derek wasn’t sure what to text back to that, so he clipped his phone to the dash and started heading for his next house. He got a call almost instantly, sighing when his mom’s voice came through the speakers.

“How was it?” she asked with no preamble.

Derek thought of the closed windows, the depressing bed, the awful bathroom, the pills… “Not good,” he answered.

“He needs you?”

Derek rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t dispute the facts. “Yeah, he does.”

There was a moment of quiet. “I’m glad you took the job, Der.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, feeling not _glad_ exactly, but needed. “Me too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: a character throws up towards the middle of this chapter. It’s brief and non-graphic, but just a head's up.

“Dad, I can’t believe you’re telling me this when I’m already late for work and wearing half a pair of pants!” Stiles fumed, tripping over the loose pant leg as he scraped his dirty dishes into a pile on his nightstand.

“I didn’t want to give you the opportunity to cancel.”

“I don’t need a maid!” Stiles insisted, putting down the dishes again to actually slide his bare leg into his trousers. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part of himself that worked hard to avoid falling down flights of stairs sighed in relief. “You need to call them and tell them not to bother.”

“No can do, kiddo. Already paid him.”

“The maid is a dude?”

“Sure is. Why, you think only women clean houses?”

“No, not at all. I’m all about equal opportunity to scrub other people’s gross toilets. But that’s the point I’m trying to make, dad,” Stiles whined as he stumbled into his kitchen with his smelly armload of plates and glasses, half dropping them in the sink in his haste. “This place is disgusting. I don’t want anyone seeing it!”

“I’m sure he’s seen worse, Stiles.”

Stiles thought about the state of his shower and very much doubted it. “It’s so embarrassing. If you’d at least told me last night I could have-”

“Stayed up and cleaned and stressed and not have gone to bed at all?”

“I mean, well, maybe. But then you wouldn’t need to pay this poor dude to do it!” Stiles reasoned, grabbing a pop tart out of the cupboard.

“He’ll do a much better job than you would,” the sheriff reasoned. “Plus, he specializes in cleaning for supernaturals, so he’ll notice things that another cleaner wouldn’t.”

Stiles’ skin went ice-cold. “I don’t need that,” he hissed, his fury burning cold and sudden.

“You won’t go to a supernatural doctor, you won’t talk to other fae, you completely ignore your magic,” his dad listed off, obviously trying to keep his tone mild. This was not a new fight. “You can’t sleep, you have constant headaches, you have no friends-”

“I have Scott!” Stiles yelled, grabbing his bag off the back of the door, nearly turning it upside down as it got caught around his arm awkwardly. 

“Besides Scott. Who got married and moved. And who you saw last  _ when, _ exactly?

Mumbling to himself and pulling some terrible faces, Stiles stormed out into the garage, hitting the button for the loud garage door and glaring as it trundled up.

“Leave the inside door unlocked,” his dad reminded him. Stiles almost locked it out of spite. He hung up on his dad in an attempt to make himself feel better. He instantly felt worse. After he’d backed out of the garage and hit the remote clipped to the visor to close the garage door, Stiles called him back.

“Sorry I got mad and hung up,” he said as soon as his dad answered.

John sighed and then chuckled. Stiles was grateful that his dad could never hold a grudge against him or stay angry for long. He wished he was more like that. But he definitely took after his m-... his mo-... not his dad’s side of the family.

“It’s okay, kid,” John said. He refused to stop using that term even though Stiles was closer to thirty than twenty. Something about Stiles always being his kid, or some sappy nonsense.

Stiles let out a huff as he drove down his street, eyes flashing to any movement, terrified of a child or a pet dashing out into the road. He was convinced an army of small kids and animals were waiting just out of sight to appear directly in front of him if he wasn’t watching like a hawk. 

“I’m driving,” Stiles said, knowing his dad would get what that meant, “but I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad. You left the door unlocked?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, a hint of belligerence creeping back into his tone. “I still can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“You’ll thank me tonight when you get home.”

Instead of dignifying that with a response, he just repeated, “I’m driving.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you later. Love you, Stiles.”

“Love ya, old man.” He hung up and set the phone in the passenger seat, face down, all while keeping his eyes on the road and the sidewalks.

It was a relief to get to work, but only because it meant he could park the Jeep and stop worrying that he was going to accidentally run someone over or get crushed under a bus, or something similar that had never actually happened to him before but he was convinced  _ beyond a doubt absolutely would _ every time he got behind the wheel.

He reclaimed his phone, checking for messages (there were none), before tugging at the cuffs of his button up and settling his bag on his shoulder. He looked up at the asphalt stretching away in front of him, the morning sun already making the smell of baked tar rise in the windless air.

It was amazing really, just how big the parking lot was. The stripmall itself wasn’t very large, and the original contractors obviously had grossly overestimated the amount of traffic the bank, hobby store, and various take out places would generate. The employee parking area was way to the side, furthest from the small accounting office where Stiles worked. If he wanted to stay out of the sun, then he had to walk under the awning along the shopfronts, and the Italian place and the ice cream shop both had big planters full of flowers along their walls.

He debated it with himself every morning, and every morning he chose to deal with the sun rather than the planters. Bracing himself to do the awkward scurry-walk he had to perform to avoid looking like he was running, Stiles made a beeline for the office, skirting the few cars already in the customer section of the lot.

Once he was in the shade outside the front door, he took a deep, centering breath and entered, rushing through the lobby with a quick nod to the guy at the front desk. He attempted to ignore the potted plant in the small alcove by the window, even though he had to pass by it so close it nearly brushed his elbow. It was a scraggly ficus tree with a twisted, skinny trunk that Stiles was certain the boss had gotten on clearance years ago, and somehow it had survived all this time. It was leaning too far into the walkway. Again. Someone would need to turn it soon. 

Stiles refused to acknowledge that the only times he didn’t have a headache were when he first walked through the door to work and then again right as he was leaving for the day. He liked to tell himself that it was the smell of coffee that perked him up in the mornings, and the relief of finishing for the day that made him feel good leaving.

The ficus had nothing to do with it.

Stiles ran for the coffee pot in the breakroom. He couldn’t figure out how to use his grandma’s coffee machine and he couldn’t be bothered to buy a new one. Especially since he could drink all the coffee he wanted for free at work. He filled his extra large mug up to the brim and tottered off to his desk with it, jiggling the mouse to get the computer to wake up.

Stiles didn’t hate his job. He didn’t particularly like it either, but it just sort of... was. And people expected him to keep showing up and doing it, and paid him for the trouble, so he did. The worst part was honestly the drive to the office and back. And the damned ficus in the hallway. And-

“Heyyyy there, Stiiiiiles.”

Oh yeah. And Jackson.

“Hey,” Stiles said, not looking at him. He sent as many Go Away vibes as he could at the other man, sighing in defeat when Jackson parked his hip on the corner of his desk.

“You look terrible,” Jackson informed him with a slick smile and glittering eyes.

“Aw, you say the sweetest things.”

“I think you’re more of a pizza face now than you were in high school,” Jackson persisted, leaning way too far into Stiles’ very generous personal space bubble to stare at his unfortunate skin. He’d broken out, again, and he was all out of zit cream. Not that it actually worked, but hey. A guy could try and have good skin care, thank you very much.

Stiles jerked away when Jackson raised a hand, his fingers getting entirely too close to his jaw. Taunting was one thing, but touching was-

“Oh, right.  _ Sorry,” _ Jackson said, not sounding sorry in the least. “I forgot. No touching the faerie.”

Stiles’ back went ice cold, like all his spinal fluid had turned into liquid nitrogen. He took a shallow, stuttering breath, feeling the aching muscles in his shoulders and arms tense as he prepared to either speak (he had no idea what he was even going to say) or knock Jackson off his desk and get fired.

“Hi guys!” Erica said, her soft voice raised enough to be heard from the doorway. Jackson turned towards her, his face startled. Erica didn't usually speak up. Her style was more  _ mousy wallflower _ and less bubbly extrovert. Stiles’ rage deflated in the face of Erica’s bravery. She’d been sticking up for him in her own quiet way ever since Stiles had admitted to her how much Jackson’s bullying got to him.

Erica walked over to them, shoulders hunched, trying to look as small as possible while also situating herself firmly between the two men. Stiles’ chest constricted with fondness. Besides Scott, she really was the closest thing he had to a friend.

Jackson leered at her for a moment, attempting to cover his surprise with doucheyness. When Erica simply turned to Stiles’ desk and set down her mug of tea and a fresh mug of coffee for Stiles dangerously close to Jackson’s hip, he finally relented with a stunningly brilliant “whatever, man” and wandered off to bother someone else. Stiles rolled his eyes and then smiled at Erica in thanks. She shook her head and rolled her eyes in sympathy, smiling back shyly. 

Erica seemed to want to put her hand on his arm in solidarity. It’s what friends did when victoriously facing down a bully, right? Her hand hovered for a moment before moving for one of the mugs instead.

Stiles wished she had followed through and touched him. But he knew why she didn’t. He’d made it very clear to everyone in the office that he preferred not to be touched. What he really meant was that he didn’t want to be touched by any supernaturals. Erica was completely human, and he was dying for someone to show him affection beyond the occasional hug he got from his dad. He couldn’t come right out and say that it was only supernaturals that he didn’t want touching him, though, because that would sound bigoted. So he resigned himself to not being touched at all.

He reached out absently for the other mug, trying not to show any of his disappointment or loneliness or, frankly, maniacal need for a pat on the arm, and took a swallow. Then abruptly choked. Because he’d grabbed Erica’s mug of tea by mistake. Her herbal, honeycomb sweetened, berry-infused tea that she bought from a magical health food store.

His magic stoked alive in an instant, twisting in his gut, rolling over like an animal waking up.

No. No no no no no no.

Stiles set down the mug as carefully as he could and stood up. He could feel Erica watching him with a worried expression, though he couldn’t see her clearly. His vision was whiting out with the surge of magic that crackled along his veins to his fingertips. Even his teeth felt like they were buzzing.

He walked slowly to the bathroom, working on keeping it together and looking as normal as possible, getting himself inside the restroom mostly by memory rather than sight. Once he was locked inside the men’s room, he flipped on the switch for the fan and turned on the sink full-blast, before heaving into the toilet.

* * *

Stiles turned off the engine and sat in his Jeep inside the closed garage when he finally got home that night.

Everything ached. He was always exhausted lately, but days when his magic tried to wake up were the worst. He’d get a jolt, followed by a crash when he didn’t let his magic boot up all the way, dousing the flames of his aura as soon as they threatened to appear.

He didn’t want to face his house. He didn’t want it to be changed, but he also wasn’t looking forward to it being the same. Stiles had loved it here as a kid, spending almost as much time at his grandma’s house as his own, especially in summer. But that was before.

Now… now the house made him feel hollowed-out and empty. No one was waiting for him inside. No one was going to hug him or tell him stories about their day. There weren’t any experimental sage cookies or salads with edible flowers waiting on the counter for him to test out and make faces at. The house was dark and quiet, dusty and dry, like the inside of his own head.

He finally forced himself out of the Jeep and made his way up to the door. The usual feeling of dread that hung over him every night when he was about to open the door, like the house was a disappointed old relative he had to face down, was less heavy than usual. In fact, he might even call the feeling hanging in the air  _ expectant. _ Suspiciously, he turned the handle and let himself in.

His first impression of his house after it had been cleaned by a supernatural specialist was… subtle. The main difference, as he tripped down the hallway into the kitchen was that he wanted to take deep breaths. His lungs expanded and he felt lighter, somehow. He kept blinking in the overhead light, everything feeling just a little bit brighter than it had that morning. Though, except for the dishes being put away and a blue glass bottle of dish soap by the sink, the kitchen didn’t look much different than he had left it. It just… twinkled at him? Did kitchens twinkle?

He set his bag down in a kitchen chair and got a can of ravioli out of the cupboard. He wanted to put off looking at the rest of the house, and eating dinner was as good a way to procrastinate as anything. He scraped the inside of the can with a spoon, getting all the sauce into a bowl before microwaving it and sitting down to eat with a chocolate Slimfast.

This was the time of day when he would normally choke down a few green pills, because taking them in combination with food usually slowed their effect on his system. He had gotten used to the sleepy, discontented way his magic would turn over in response to the pills, not quite waking up, but soothed just enough to let him sleep. If he was lucky.

However, his system was already humming with a sensation similar to the one induced by the green pills. He could breathe better than usual and his headache had died down to a dull roar, still present, but manageable. Instead of feeling exhausted and irritable like he usually did after getting home and eating, he just felt sleepy. And mildly queasy. But that wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to.

After cleaning up his dishes and shutting the window that the cleaner must have accidentally left open over the sink (he’d have to leave the guy a note about remembering to close up properly  _ if _ he ever allowed him back), he cautiously climbed the stairs. He took a deep breath outside the bathroom, then made himself walk inside and rip off the band-aid of mortification he knew he was about to face.

Oh god, it was so much worse than he’d anticipated. Stiles covered his face and groaned, unable to move from shame. The bathroom was spotless. The cleaner had even arranged his products nicely on the counter. With the shower curtain only half-closed, Stiles could see the now sparkling clean tile. It even smelled nice. Stiles, as grateful that he was that he didn’t have to clean it himself, was never,  _ ever _ going to live down the shame.

Arg, someone had scrubbed his toilet. His  _ toilet. _ And had done such a good job, Stiles was afraid to use it. He was going to have to call his dad and force him to fire the cleaner so that he never had to face this level of blinding efficiency in his life ever again.

Too miserable to be properly appreciative, Stiles dragged himself to the bedroom, intending to watch YouTube on his phone in the dark until he passed out. Except when he stepped over the threshold, he felt the warning signs. His fingers began to tingle, then his toes. His head went still and clear, like a deep, fathomless pond. A green smell wrapped itself around his brainstem, caressing and encouraging, a siren call to his magic to  _ wake up, wake up. _

Stiles gasped and slammed the windows shut, glaring at the thistle plant that had grown so tall it was brushing its spiny leaves against the window screen nearest his bed. His hands were buzzing and Stiles looked from his palms, to the window, back to his hands, which were just faintly shimmering in the low light from the hall. Magical transference. 

Stiles leapt back. He looked at his bed, made up neatly with clean sheets, the whole room scented with herb and flower oils. He scrambled backwards out the door and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste. He collapsed on the old sofa in the living room, jittery from the magical surge running up his arms and circulating in his lungs. It didn’t hurt, not like drinking Erica's magically infused tea earlier, but it was unwelcome. 

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and was calling his dad before he even had a cohesive thought formed.

“Hi kiddo-”

“You have to fire him,” Stiles said, and oh, okay, he apparently had thoughts formed after all.

“What? Why?” his dad asked, sounding alarmed.

“He cleaned my house!”

“Yes, well. I gave him money so that he would, you know, do that,” his dad responded, infuriating in his foolproof logic.

“But he let fresh air in! And he has magic hands!”

“Uh-”

“I mean, his hands are  _ literally  _ magic, dad! If I touch anything he did, I can feel it. It’s warm and tingly and wholesome and alive and I hate it!”

“I think you’re overreacting.”

Stiles, gasped, affronted. “Fire him this instant! He can’t come back.”

“You need some sort of magical presence in your life, Stiles,” his dad said, again being logical and awful. “You physically  _ need _ it.”

“No I don’t!” Stiles insisted, though he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Stupid facts messing up his worldview. “Okay, fine,” he conceded before his dad could point out, again, the long list of reasons why he needed some form of magic to, well, live. “I’ll visit Scott more often, okay? I’ll invite him and Allison over and Scott can get his magic mojo all over the kitchen and living room, okay?”

“I mean, that would be great and you should totally do that when Scott can squeeze you into his busy schedule,” his dad said, his voice dripping with fatherly indignation and sarcasm, “but in the meantime, you need a stable magical presence. I don’t mind paying for that. You physically need it.”

“You sound like you’re hiring me a prostitute.”

“That was an option I considered,” his dad said, his calm beginning to unravel, “and it honestly would have been cheaper!”

“I didn’t ask you to pay for this!”

“You need this!”

“I don’t, I’m fine!”

“It’s either this, or you are moving back home and I’m still going to hire a supernatural cleaner. And you’ll have to be on the same diet I am.”

“You know I can't eat  _ vegetables,” _ Stiles said in his most betrayed voice.

“That’s not what the doctor said.”

“I didn’t like that doctor.” 

Stiles could actually hear his dad rubbing his eyes. Finally, he took a deep breath and changed tactics.

“You actually sound better,” his dad said. “Your voice sounds clearer. Not as raspy.”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Stiles agreed cautiously. “My throat feels better today.”

“Today, or since you got home?”

Silence.

“Stiles?”

“I plead the fifth.”

“He’s staying.”

“Fine!” Stiles briefly considered hanging up again. “But tell him not to do the laundry or open windows next time. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep.”

“He knows what he’s doing.”

“I have special needs!” Stiles screeched. “As a client, I mean,” he amended quickly. His dad wisely let that one go.

“He knows what he’s doing, Stiles,” his dad repeated. “Give it a few days. If you really can’t sleep, we’ll figure something out, okay?”

Stiles knew when he was beaten. Well, he didn’t always, but he could definitely tell this time. He sighed loud and long into the phone to underscore his displeasure. “Fine. Okay.”

“And sleep in your room.”

“But-”

“Not on the sofa. Give it a chance. If you really can’t sleep in there, then you can ruin your back on that lumpy eyesore.”

_ “Fine.” _

“Love you, son.”

“Love you too, you horrible dictator.”

“Aw, and here I was worried that you moving out would mean we weren’t as close.”

“Nice try. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Talk to you tomorrow, Stiles.”

“Night, dad.”

Stiles hung up and then instantly texted Scott.

Stiles:  _ Wanna hang out this weekend?  _

Stiles: _ You guys are welcome here, but I can also drive over to yours. _

Stiles: _ Let me know if something will work out! _

When he didn’t get a response right away, he switched on the old TV that was still encased in a wood cabinet like a piece of furniture. He remembered sitting in this same room on a throw cushion next to his mo-... his m-... and his grandma had been there too, making them popcorn and weird juice sodas that sparkled with magic bubbles that moved through the pop like the stuff inside lava lamps.

He switched the TV back off and watched videos on his phone instead.

Hours later, he finally trudged up the stairs and stared angrily at the bed. He put off the inevitable by taking a shower, marveling at the way the water rushed easily down the drain instead of puddling at his feet. Drying off with a fresh towel made his skin tingle instead of itch, like it normally did. The towels smelled a lot better too. The cleaner must have used new detergent. Stiles decided not to think about that. 

Instead, he got changed into a fresh pair of cotton sweatpants that felt soft instead of chafing his skin (still not thinking about it) and crawled resolutely into the fresh-smelling bed. It smelled… good. Something about the sheets was extra nice, extra… homey. He couldn’t place it, but he liked it instantly. He scrunched his face up, annoyed. How was he ever going to get to sleep? His skin was buzzing, his fingers and toes tingling. He didn’t feel dead-exhausted. He felt good. Calm. Not like he usually did, trying to force himself to sleep every night and-

And there was no way… no way at all that… that he’d ever be able to...

Sleep…

… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an inspiration board for [Verdant ](https://www.pinterest.com/mothdustmouth/verdant/) (and all my other stories as well) over on Pinterest


	3. Chapter 3

Derek always stopped for McDonald’s the nights he cleaned Randall’s house. It was part reward and part precaution.

He rarely ate fast food, and despite the fact that he had an elevated sense of smell and taste, he had somehow ended up with a slight addiction to double cheeseburgers. He blamed his mom, who used to bribe himself and his sisters with Happy Meals as kids if they behaved while they were doing her Alpha rounds. 

The Hale kids had developed a system. He and Laura had an arrangement that, so long as no one cheated, they would swap burgers for one bite each. That way Derek got to have some of Laura’s McRib, and Laura got a bite of his cheeseburger. Cora was easy because she liked the fries best and he always used to trade half his fries for some of her chicken nuggets. 

Now as an adult, he could order anything he liked, and he always got too much. But that was also part of the precaution.

He parked down the street from Randall’s house, forty minutes early, and opened up the crinkly paper bag. He heaved a self-indulgent, happy sigh, peeling away the greasy wrapper on the first double cheeseburger and digging in. He drank sips of Coke in between bites, getting as much of the soda into his system as possible.

Once he was stuffed full of chemicals and grease, he wiped his salty fingers off on a napkin and let himself digest (somewhat uncomfortably) before driving the rest of the way to Randall’s place and parking in the driveway. As usual, Randall opened the door the moment Derek turned off the engine. And, also as usual, his expectant look turned sour as soon as Derek walked up to the door with his supplies.

“You don’t need to do that,” Randall said, the corners of his red mouth turning down.

“You know why I do,” Derek replied, waiting for Randall to back out of the doorway and invite him in, which was a ritual all to itself.

“I officially welcome you to my abode,” Randall intoned, bowing stiffly, and extended an arm into the ranch-style house.

“I accept your offer of hospitality,” Derek told him, trying not to let his mouth twitch. He stepped over the threshold, the vampire’s protective magic letting him pass through with a feeling like breaking the surface of cold water.

“I can control myself,” Randall insisted, picking up their conversation from before.

Derek very much doubted that. He’d spent his first day at Randall’s house with a very interested vampire plastered to his back the entire time, watching his every move with glittering eyes. Randall had licked his lips and swallowed every few minutes, visibly drooling as Derek pushed the vacuum around his coffin pedestal.

“Sure,” Derek replied diplomatically, “but it’s easier for both of us this way.”

Randall wrinkled his aquiline nose and fussed with his cravat. Not for the first time, Derek wondered if he dressed up especially for him or if the Victorian garb was his usual look. He knew a few other vampires, and none of them were quite this… flamboyant.

The discovery that his blood wasn’t  _ nearly _ as appealing when he was chock-full of fast food and soda had been a happy accident, but one that Derek had taken full advantage of ever since. This way, Randall didn’t stick to him like a shadow while he cleaned, and he got to justify his weekly McDonald’s binge as necessary to his survival. Win-win.

The vampire went to sulk in front of the TV (a vintage black and white model) to watch Miami Ink reruns and drink “wine” from a Baroque pewter goblet of questionable origin, while Derek headed to the basement rec room to start dusting.

* * *

“Der!” Cora screeched, launching herself at her brother as soon as he stepped inside of the Hale family house for Sunday pack dinner. He sighed and tried not to roll his eyes as she rubbed her cheek unnecessarily roughly against his ear. She always thought it was funny to scent him aggressively enough that one of his ears glowed red. Pulling back, she looked from side to side and cackled.

Lydia walked up to him much more sedately and Derek leaned in for the dainty air kisses that usually stood in for scenting between wolves and other supernaturals. Banshees didn’t scent mark like Weres did, but they weren’t completely adverse to touch, and so the little pecks served well enough between close friends and family. 

For just a moment, Derek’s thoughts flickered to Stiles. Faes usually loved touch nearly as much as wolves. Claudia used to come over to their house with garlands of herbs and bright wildflowers, flinging them over the necks of anyone who got close enough. She would envelope his family members in bear hugs, laughing and shaking them good-naturedly, Stiles right beside her waiting impatiently for his turn to be squished by the Hale pack.

He turned his attention back to Lydia, trying not to remember the rumor that Stiles used to have a crush on her until she’d presented as a Banshee in tenth grade. At which point, all of Cora’s stories about Stiles had dried up, and Derek hadn't heard much about him until he’d been asked to clean his house.

“I’d say welcome to the family,” Derek said, giving Lydia a small smile, “but I actually know that you two have been dating since before Christmas.”

There was a crash from the kitchen followed quickly by a wide-eyed Laura appearing in the doorway with sudsy hands. “You told me I was the first to know!” she shrieked. 

Cora gasped in false innocence. “I swear you were the first sibling I told! In fact, as of this moment, you’re my  _ only _ sibling.” She looked over at Derek, pretending to notice him for the first time and recoiling from him. “I’ve never seen this person before in my life.”

Laura still looked playfully enraged at being, clearly, the last to know that Cora had finally asked Lydia out. She made a mock angry face and chased Cora into the living room where they proceeded to wrestle like preschoolers, snarling and growling as a lamp crashed to the floor.

Derek and Lydia stood in the wide entry to the living room, watching with calm faces as Laura accidently kicked all the heavy books off the coffee table. 

Lydia tossed her red hair off her shoulder and checked her nails. “So, how are things?” she asked, disinterestedly. He gave a little shrug, just as aloof. 

Laura’s 5-year-old son, Alex, ran full-tilt into the room, screaming with joy at the ruckus, and promptly flung himself on top of his mom and aunt. They reined in their mock-fighting to accommodate the little ball of fluff and energy, who had shifted into beta form, his gold eyes flickering off and on the way little kid’s eyes did before they could fully control their shift.

Derek sighed, settling his shoulder against the doorway. “Things are the same,” he replied, neutrally. “How about for you?”

“Oh, you know,” she answered, giving a vague gesture with her hand before adjusting her bracelets with care. “The same.”

Luna, Alex’s older sister, wandered into the living room with uncle Peter, who had been helping with her math homework and was now carrying her sequined backpack. She tried to look annoyed with her family, narrowing her stately 11-year-old eyes at her ridiculous brother, who was being held suspended carefully between Laura and Cora as they swung him back and forth before plopping him onto the couch. She lasted all of ten seconds before she was demanding a turn, her eyes a steady gold as she was hoisted up, growling and laughing as she was tossed onto the cushions.

“Cora said something about you cleaning for Stiles Stilinski,” Lydia commented in a dry voice as she ignored Peter's existence, even though he was attempting to get her attention from across the room. Derek hummed in response, as equally casual. Lydia got out a small seashell compact and reapplied her lip gloss. “His grandmother’s house is pretty big, isn’t it?”

“Traditional fae houses usually are,” Derek said, grabbing Alex as he went head-over-heels trying to clear the coffee table in a single leap. He set his nephew back on his sturdy little legs, only for him to instantly spring back over the table and tackle Luna, who tried to turn her surprised squeal into a growl. Peter tossed a throw blanket over the two, who set up an outraged howling match as they clawed their way back out into daylight.

“Not much about Stiles is traditional,” Lydia said smoothly, smacking her lips in the tiny mirror. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me he’d switched out the altars for a PlayStation.”

The ruckus in the living room was starting to die down, the growling sounding more and more like purring, and the wrestling slowly evolving into a cuddle pile. Cora was industriously working to get her hair back into a presentable bun, before working on Laura and Luna’s hair, her wrist festooned with enough hair ties for all three of them.

“I doubt he could get a PlayStation plugged into that ancient television set,” Derek snorted. Lydia gave him a cool side eye and he relented slightly. “The altars are still there. It just looks like he doesn’t use them.”

Derek used Laura’s grumpy whine as an excuse to escape Lydia’s probing and got pulled into the snuggle pile. He put up with Alex’s pointy toes kicking him and Cora’s elbow in his spine, until every single one of the Hales in the house had somehow magically ended up on or around the huge family sofa. His mom and dad managed to get the grandkids in their corner of the couch, and he’d ended up bookended by Cora and Peter. Cora was holding Lydia’s hand as she perched delicately on the back of the sofa, pretending to look at her phone but actually taking a sneaky picture of the werewolf pile.

Derek missed this sometimes. They usually managed to pile together every Sunday, but living on his own, he didn’t get to mash into a Were puddle every day like he’d been used to growing up. Once the weekend rolled around, he usually felt himself getting desperate for touch and for pack scenting. He huffed a contented sigh as Peter nuzzled the back of his neck while his own cheek pressed against Cora’s hair as she hummed nonsense song phrases at her girlfriend, swinging Lydia’s hand back and forth lazily.

“It’s like you’re half drunk,” Lydia cooed softly at her, taking her hand out of Cora’s so she could brush some loose strands of hair Cora had missed out of her eyes. Cora just smiled up at her in adoration.

Eventually, they all got up, stretched, and went to get dinner on the table. Everyone was somewhat hazy after pack scenting, like they’d all just woken up from a nap, though it was only Alex who had actually drifted off to sleep.

They ate huge quantities of food, like only wolves could, and slowly the volume level increased, until Derek crept off to the kitchen to start loading the dishwasher and get a moment of peace. He heard his mom say Stiles’ name, just once, in the other room, but he couldn’t hear what she’d said about him, the buzz of other, louder voices burying her words in a flurry of laughter.

* * *

The thistle looked even bigger, though it had only been a week. Derek didn’t know how fast thistles grew, but this thing was seriously a monster. He eyed it as he got his supplies out of the Camaro, and it felt like it eyed him back.

The contents of Stiles’ fridge were nearly the same, though most of the Slimfast cans were gone, replaced with a box full of Bananas & Cream Premier Protein shakes. Derek’s head jerked back in disgust and he shut the fridge door hurriedly.

In the bedroom he discovered that the sheets were stripped off the bed and Stiles had made an attempt at sorting his laundry. The windows were closed up tight again, but the room didn’t reek so strongly of misery. He could tell that Stiles wasn’t exactly well or happy, but Derek guessed that the fresh bedding had helped him sleep. Apparently, Stiles had realized that too, as he was pretty much guaranteeing that his bed would be made with clean sheets again by dumping it all on the floor in a (mostly) neat pile.

Derek got the first load going after emptying the dehumidifier in the basement (which was smelling much better than last time), and then went out in the backyard to set up the clothesline. It was a sunny day with just a few clouds in the sky. He squinted in the bright light, looking around the large backyard as he tied the rope in place between the poles. He velcroed the cloth bag of clothespins to the line once it was up, the wooden clips rattling together as he pushed it to the side along the rope.

The upstairs bathroom was clean, which both surprised and irritated him, because Stiles had used store-bought products and the room stank of bleach. Grumbling to himself, Derek recleaned the bathroom using products that would help restore balance. He had made up a special batch just for this room; this ghastly, ghastly room.

He glared at the sealed window for almost a full minute, wondering if he should just pop it open. But, no, he really ought to ask Stiles first. He supposed he could leave him a note on a piece of scrap paper.

Did Stiles remember his handwriting?

He had a memory of Stiles’ hand clenched around a chewed-up pencil, his buzzed head hanging over his homework as Derek read out the essay instructions so that Stiles could focus easier on what he needed to get down on paper. His mole-speckled neck had been a little bit sunburned, his shoulders shaking with laughter at the voices Derek started doing when Stiles got frustrated with his writing speed.

“You sound just like him!” Stiles had chortled, his voice still childlike, unchanged yet by puberty.

“In  _ this _ classroom, we raise our _ hands _ if we wish to speak,” Derek mock-bellowed, imitating Stiles’ English teacher. Derek had gotten stuck with the same guy when he was Stiles’ age. That man never did win any teacher of the year awards.

Stiles rolled on the Hale living room floor, holding his sides while he laughed helplessly, accidently kicking Cora in the leg. She slid her headphones off just long enough to complain that they were bothering her. 

“This is so boring, Derek,” Stiles said, once he’d finally calmed down. I can’t think of anything else to write.”

“You just have to do a few more paragraphs,” Derek said, looking over his shoulder at Stiles’ painfully careful handwriting. “Just write some more about learning how to build a fire and camping and stuff. Your dad taught you how to fish too, right? And Laura showed you how Weres track deer through the woods.”

“It’s so hard,” Stiles said. His face was taking on a pinched look and Derek could tell he was getting overwhelmed.

He dropped down on his stomach next to Stiles, pushing all the unopened books and other assignments to the side, hiding the backpack of school work behind a throw pillow from the couch. Then he pulled out a notebook from his own pile of homework, and opened to a fresh page.

“I’ll write one too. Faster than you,” Derek said. He wrote “My Summer” at the top of the page and then snuck an exaggerated peek over at Stiles’ paper. “Oh, yeah, I have to start with ‘Last summer I learned something new.’ Um… okay, I got something.” He made a show of writing with gusto.

Stiles shrieked and dove back into his own essay. Derek was a little concerned that in his haste to beat Derek to the end of the page, his handwriting would be illegible. Maybe he should have thought his strategy through a little more beforehand. But when Stiles finally whooped and jumped to his feet to do a victory dance for having beaten Derek in their “race,” Derek saw that the page was mostly decipherable.

“No!” Derek said for show. “You beat me!”

Stiles preened for a good few minutes before flopping back down at Derek’s side.

“What did you write about?” he asked, sliding the notebook over in front of himself. “Learning guitar?” Stiles looked up at him with that mix of curiosity and hero worship that always made Derek feel like he’d never measure up.

“Yeah.”

“So cool…” Stiles sighed. “I want to learn to play the guitar too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Can I have this?” Stiles asked, holding up Derek’s essay. “I mean, it’s not actually for school, right? So, maybe it will help me when I learn guitar.”

“Sure,” Derek had said, ripping out the sheet and handing it to him. “Maybe I can help you get started. Just let me know if your parents say it’s okay for you to learn to play. Guitars can be expensive and stuff.” Derek shrugged.

“Okay!” That look again. Derek turned away from that bright little pixie face to rummage around his own backpack. Stiles’ hand darted out, scenting Derek’s neck, as natural as a wolf. It was the Were equivalent of a side-hug. “Thanks, Derek.”

Derek had just shrugged again. "No problem," he'd answered, turning his attention to his own homework.

Stiles never asked Derek to help him learn how to play guitar. There wasn’t time after that. Not with Claudia’s illness. And after-

Derek turned around and clattered out of the bathroom, uncharacteristically clumsy. 

He headed for the basement when he heard the washing machine finish spinning. Lugging the basket out to the backyard, he hung the sheets up on the line, the damp edges skimming the tops of the long grass as honeybees hummed around in the afternoon quiet. It wasn’t uncommon for faes to have sprawling gardens instead of suburban lawns. The yard gave the impression that it may have been a sort of meadow-style garden at some point, though it looked like it had been mown down at the beginning of spring and then never tended. It was tangled and almost pretty in a forlorn sort of way.

Derek had enough time to dust the main rooms on the first floor and finish the rest of the laundry. He stood in the bedroom to fold everything, spreading it out in neat piles on the bare mattress with the fresh breeze blowing through the open windows. T-shirt, t-shirt, jeans, polo, flannel, boxers, t-shirt, socks, boxer briefs, shorts. He tucked everything away in the dresser, hanging the few work shirts he’d laundered in the closet. They were the no-iron variety, which was good, because Derek wasn't about to iron anyone’s shirts. Still, he made sure that they were pulled straight on the flimsy plastic hangers in Stiles’ closet so they wouldn’t wrinkle.

By the time he’d finished mopping the kitchen, the sheets had dried in the sun. He gathered them into the basket and took them upstairs to make the bed. He smoothed his hands all over the sheets as he pulled them into place, once again hoping that the slight magical transference would help Stiles sleep.

He stood in the kitchen with his supplies resting in their bucket by his foot, holding a pencil and staring at a blank page in a spiral notebook for several moments, before setting the pencil down and leaving the page blank.

It wasn’t that important to open the bathroom window.

  
  



End file.
